An Unexpected Visitor
by LizHolmes
Summary: It's approximately four months after the fall of Sherlock Holmes, and John is finding it difficult to merge back into a normal, boring life without his flatmate by his side. But one night, after a particularly emotional outing, there is a visitor waiting for our good Doctor Watson when he returns. Smutty goodness ahead :3
1. John's Misery

John Watson sat at the cluttered supper table and stared at the wall, but saw nothing. He hadn't been able to leave the flat, that place stuffed to the brim with memories of his times with...

It had been four months since Reichenbach, since his friend had jumped. Well, four months and seventeen days. Not that John was counting.

The doctor knew in the furthest reaches of his mind that he wasn't truly gone, just... invisible, or waiting for the right time to come back, or some bloody stupid reason that would make no sense if- **_when _**he returned. But no matter how hard John believed in the great detective, the other part of his mind, the critically logical part, nagged at him for even hoping he was still alive. There was no way that his old flatmate was 100% perfect in every way, although if you ever said that in his presence, he would point out every way you were wrong until you dropped into unconsciousness from lack of oxygen in the room.

John's mind trudged over everything that could've gone wrong like a well worn path through the forest. This process was a ritual for him at this point. Almost every other day he would make himself a cup of tea, and do as he did now, watch the wall, take the occasional sip, think too much, and put himself in a depressed mood before he even got to the halfway point of his mug.

Four months.

The good doctor closed his eyes and visited his gallery of memories, or his "memory palace," and re-watched everything. The first time he laid his eyes on that wonderful man, when he was told his own life story from his limp, stance, and his mobile. He saw the times he had laughed with him, like the time at Buckingham Palace with the ashtray and a simple white sheet. John didn't let his mind wander.

He also remembered the times when he would watch his partner and flatmate act so cold, so robotic and emotionless during cases, and he had just wanted nothing more than to bruise that pretty face. _"There are plenty of sick people in hospitals, John. Why don't you go cry by __**their**__ bedsides?"_ But he could never stay cross. Not with him. Never him. Except now, when Holmes had abandoned him when John needed him most. When John had finally realized...

A sudden rage swept through him that made him want to shatter every piece of glassware that he could get his hands on, but just as he shot up and grabbed his teacup, he stopped himself. The walls of their stuffy flat seemed to be shrinking, getting smaller and smaller until they seemed to close around his heart and fill it with the kind of fear he felt when a certain criminal's snipers were trained on him. _D-damn it. _He wouldn't let the tears fall. Not now, not ever. He needed to be strong, strong for…

_Damn it._

John got up and left the flat without as much as a nod to Mrs. Hudson. John still didn't quite trust cabbies, so he walked to the park. There, he sat on the bench where he had first heard of Sherlock from the friend who had suggested a flatshare in the first place. He sat, and for hours, just... sat.

Every now and again, he would see someone with the same hair color, or a similar jacket, or even the same glorious voice as his best friend, which only put him into a darker mood, until someone had recognized him and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. They had barely got out, "I'm so sorr-"

"Don't you dare, don't touch me," he would hiss.

He could've sat there through the night, but the weather and his stomach had different plans. With a drizzle dampening his sandy hair, (which needed a slight cut from Mrs. Hudson) John made his way to a Chinese takeaway and ordered his normal dim sum. The clerk recognized him with a fond smile and gave him a dinner for two, when John had come close to losing it. He slapped down the money, took his food, and left as quickly as he had come, and headed towards Baker Street.

He was almost home when he heard it. He very nearly dropped his bag from sheer shock. At first, the thought he was remembering a sound that could only be from some half-forgotten dream, but no. It was _him. _It had to be. John raced for 221B with the speed of a man with hellfire on his heels. He flew through the front door and up the stairs. He heard Mrs. Hudson call after him, but he didn't care. He had to see. He had to know if it was true.

He neared the door, and stopped with a shaking hand gripping the knob, and a thundering beat gripping his heart. He heard it, flowing freely beneath the door.

A song. A song full of sweet, sweet sorrow, of beautiful pain that only the holder of that holy instrument could ever know. John Watson closed his eyes, braced himself, and turned the handle, and just like that, the song vanished as if it had never existed. He stepped into that dark, empty room, and saw that it had been left the same way it had been for the last four months and seventeen days. Cluttered, with bullet holes and that infernal smiley face on the wall, and Petri dishes scattered the tables, experiments long-since dried up. Untouched, uncleared, as to preserve the memory of London's, and perhaps Britain's greatest consulting detective.

John stood, and let the fact that he was truly alone sink in, while considering that he was hearing things, and possibly going mad. He stood, tightened his jumper around his shivering body, let the tears fall. Not in waves, with rounds of sobbing, just silent and one at a time as he gazed around his flat, THEIR flat. He stepped into the centre of the room, and stood, and remembered.

Minutes, hours, possibly days passed, and John thought that his eyes would be raw permanently from overuse. Still standing in the entryway, he told himself what he had refused to believe for four months and seventeen days.

_He's not coming back, you bloody fool. Don't you get it? _

_He's dead. _

_He._

_ Is. _

**_DEAD._**

There was an old army trick John had used in Afghanistan. When someone he knew, or someone he was friends with was killed, at first he would be drowning in emotion. Sadness. Fear. Hate. Anger. Sorrow. He would let himself be upset, perhaps even let himself cry in the privacy of his bunk, but when he would feel utterly spent, John would imagine that his body was a giant, metal box, and with each breath, the walls would get smaller. And as the box shrunk, it would catch those emotions like flypaper. Smaller and smaller until all those pesky little feelings were caught in the metal box. Then he would stuff the little box away until he could fully face it later, when it wasn't in the way of the task at hand.

And that was what he was doing with Sherlock. It was time to end this emotional roller coaster. He wasn't coming back, not ever, and John had to accept that. Maybe not accept, but _understand. _He made that box shrink with every fiber of his being. Down, down, smaller, smaller… and stuff it away. Gone.

John scrubbed at his face with his hands, breathing out a sigh he didn't know he was holding. Tea. That's what he needed. It'd be his sixth cup in a matter of hours, but what the hell. Tea heals all wounds. Or at least sterilizes them. Now all he had to do was remember how to walk. _Ah yes, it's that thing when you put one foot in front of the other. Yes, I know now… _Step, step, step.

John slowly rounded the corner into the kitchen and dropped his makeshift dinner on the counter when his knees very nearly gave out from beneath him. _Oh Jesus. _

In front of him was a sight he had just convinced himself he would never see again in this lifetime. His eyes scrambled to register what his brain refused to believe, but nevertheless. Less than three meters away, standing in front of the kitchen window, was Sherlock Holmes.

It was like watching an automobile accident happen, John saw everything in slow motion, and almost perfect detail. He saw Sherlock's two beautiful, beautiful blue-green eyes, grazing over John's body with-Longing? Curiosity? _He's __**analyzing **__me, _John realized. A dark head of curly hair that was longer than John recalled, but ached to have John's fingers snaked through those black waves, nonetheless. That perfectly imperfect crooked grin. Sherlock's tall, pale shape silhouetted in the moonlight coming from the window, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around his precious violin.

Sherlock Holmes.

How John had fantasized about this moment, never believing that it would one day come true. But here he was, Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh! So close, that John could touch that angular face. But he didn't. John stood there, his mouth gaping like a fish, and his brown eyes filling with tears anew. Sherlock looked at the floor, then back up at his mate from under those dark lashes. And that voice...

"Did you miss me, John?"


	2. Sherlock's Change

Sherlock had finally decided that it was time to reveal himself. There were many times in the months beforehand when he had desperately wanted to raise the curtain, to show himself after leaving so… abruptly. But he knew that if he had shown himself before getting rid of the men Moriarty had hired to kill the only his only friends in the world, they would still be able to eliminate the unfortunate three.

But finally, FINALLY after hunting for almost a month, Sherlock had found the last sniper and snuffed him out in Bulgaria. Almost that same day, he sped off for London, and Baker Street for his big return.

That's how Sherlock thought of it all. A big show onstage, and the fall from St. Bart's rooftop signaled the curtain closing. But now was the time for it to rise again, because Sherlock couldn't stand it being the end. Oh no, he wanted it to continue on forever. He had grown used to, perhaps even **comfortable** in his old lifestyle of waking up, having tea in the morning, flopping onto the sofa to ponder and play the violin and argue with John about his bloody blog and the utter idiots that poked and prodded John for more updates on their old cases. John….

Though Sherlock didn't fully admit to himself that he missed his tiny tyrant of an army doctor, the thought was still in his brain, just sitting there like a seed not being allowed to flourish, but not being removed either. When he arrived at 221B, that tiny seed fluttered slightly to life and probed its flimsy roots into the crevices of Sherlock's mind. He barely needed to search further into the tiny flat to know that 1. John was out and 2… Everything was exactly the same. From the robe haphazardly flung across the back of the armchair, to the many souvenirs on the fireplace, even to the Petri dishes from an experiment Sherlock started god-only-knows how long ago.

The smell of the flat came rushing back into him, the smell of tea leaves from hundreds of afternoons ago, Sherlock's old hand sanitizer he would use before and after experiments so often that the smell was stained into the atmosphere, yet there was another smell, one so distinct but so familiar…

John. It was John.

The fragile seed in his mind suddenly shot up into a stem and sprouted a leaf.

_Judging by the state of the place… John isn't well. God, please don't hate me._

While Sherlock absentmindedly picked up his violin (from the same place he last left it, right next to the window) he had almost no idea what to do with it. He couldn't focus on music after recovering from being… homesick, if that was the right word. He had no idea whether to play Bach, Handel, or Mozart. None of their pieces seemed to fit his situation correctly. So Sherlock did what he deemed appropriate. He played from his heart. No written notes, other than the ones in his soul.

Times like this were the only time Sherlock saw emotion as useful. They usually made wonderful pieces. The last time he had done this, he had thought that The Woman was dead.

The song started out slow, almost timid. As it went on, it became more earnest and pleading, as if saying _please, please forgive me, I didn't mean any of it._ The song climaxed and crescendoed, the song as rich as red wine, and Sherlock found his eyes brimming with tears. He knew what the song meant. He knew who he had written it for, it echoed throughout the empty house, accompanying the lonely notes. _John, John, my John…_

The tiny stem grew into a beautiful luscious tree wrapping itself throughout Sherlock's body. A single tear trailed over the detective's cheekbone that seemed to slice into the inky darkness.

Sherlock felt drunk. He'd never played like that, not even when Irene disappeared. God, what was happening? Why had the thought of his army doctor leave him in a mental wreck?

The detective pulled himself out of his stupor in time to hear someone grip the door knob… then hesitate. _It's him._

Before he could stop himself, he bolted for the kitchen. _Why the hell should I need to hide?! _He screamed internally, but he didn't move. Because barely visible in the darkness, turned half away so his profile could be seen was John Hamish Watson.

The look on his face would've shattered a lesser mans heart. Sherlock could see the tear-stained trails marring the good doctors face like scars. But for just a moment, Sherlock could see something that hurt him more than the tears; Hope.

John had missed Sherlock, he knew that before he even arrived in London, but he never thought that John would shed tears for him, let alone wait until he showed back up.

And as Sherlock watched from the shadows, he knew just how badly John had needed him. John had begun to cry **because Sherlock wasn't there. **It took every ounce of strength Sherlock possessed not to reach out and make John better, somehow. He wasn't sure John would ever be the same ever again.

He waited until it was over, and continued to watch as John steeled himself and wiped his face of any trace of feeling. John rubbed his face and let out an utterly broken breath he'd been holding. Sherlock prepared himself for whatever was yet to come when John found him. John rounded the corner and set down a bag- Chinese, by the smell, probably dim sum- and nothing could have readied the great detective for the look that ran over John's face like a freight train. Shock, disbelief, anger- **fear. **

John had lost weight. He wasn't sure how much exactly, but his face was thinner. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his cheeks were gaunt like the skull on the mantle. _Insomnia. He hasn't taken any medication, so he must he afraid to go to sleep. Recurring nightmares, then._

The two men stood there, both shocked, both unsure of what to do next, both waiting for something to happen. Sherlock wanted to speak, but what would he say? _Hello John, as you can see, I'm not dead. It was all a trick, so now everyone can calm down and everything can go back to normal. _

A frozen wind ripped through the majestic tree's branches in Sherlock's mind when he saw that John's eyes were welling up once more. The detective had the sudden urge to examine the floorboards as if they contained the answer to everything in the universe. _I can't even look at him…_

Sherlock could hardly peek up at John through his dark lashes when he said what was possibly the worst line to ever grace the ears of mankind.

"Did you miss me, John?"


	3. Explainations and Outbursts

John slowly took a step further into the cramped kitchen. _This can't be happening. _Another step. _He's supposed to be dead. _Step. Step.

He was mere feet away from what had to be some cruel trick of his sick mind. John stretched out a shaking hand. _This isn't real. _Sherlock stayed silent and stood as vigilant as ever. John looked through the blur of tears in his eyes and saw that his fists were clenched and shaking. The good doctor hesitantly brushed his fingers against the detective's jacket-clad shoulder, and recoiled as if he touched an open flame.

"Y-you're…" John's voice shook. "You're dead… You… are supposed to be dead."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. For what seemed like the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes was speechless. John looked like he was going to faint. Or vomit. Perhaps both. He knew that John deserved an explanation, or comforting words, even though he didn't really know how to be exactly **comforting.** What he _didn't _know was that John thought he would spend the rest of his life hoping and waiting and dying inside. He didn't know how much pain he had put the army doctor through. He didn't know how hard John had fallen to his knees, just to be knocked back down when he stood. And mostly, he didn't know how absolutely **_pissed_** John was. Without warning…

**_SLAP!_**

The sound seemed to echo around the small room as John watched Sherlock step back with his head turned, and his mouth wide with surprise and shock at the very idea of John Watson ever striking him. Except that time in the alley near Irene Adler's flat. But that was a very different time.

Sherlock turned with a blazing red patch, and cleared his throat nervously. "I'm to take that as a 'No,' then?"

That was when John snapped.

"You were dead! You jumped off of St. Bart's, and you had us believe that that was the end! You made Mrs. Hudson **_bury you! _**You made **_ME_** bury you, when you knew **exactly** how many friends I've had to bury! How could you even think of doing that to me, to everyone we knew?!"

The detective leaned against the refrigerator as John's words piled onto him. "I understand that what I did was wrong, John," he murmured, "but I never meant to hurt-"

"Wrong? Just wrong?! Sherlock, you-" John shut his eyes and lowered his voice. "You practically destroyed Mrs. Hudson. She's hardly left her flat. Lestrade blames himself and said that he could've stopped you. And you know what?" His voice rose again. "You know who visited your grave? Mycroft, Sally and Anderson. **_Anderson_**, Sherlock! So if you think that what you did hasn't affected practically _everyone_ you know, you're-" Before he could finish his tirade, Sherlock stood and pinned him against the counter island, a hand bracing against the counter on either side of John's squirming body. "Sherlock, what the hell are you-"

"I need you to be _quiet, _John." He growled.

Without knowing why, John obeyed. Was it the anger in Sherlock's eyes that he'd never seen before, or the pain? The sincerity? Or perhaps the sorrow in those sunken eyes?

"That day, on the roof, I wasn't alone. Moriarty was there, and he told me everything. How he'd broken into the bank, the prison, everything." He took a deep breath. "He also told me that if I didn't jump, he would have his men kill the people closest to me. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. **_You. _**I wanted to keep you all _safe._" He looked into the poor doctor's eyes at the last word. Sherlock noticed their proximity and pulled away slightly, but not all the way. He left his hands resting on either side of John. He noted that his breathing was slightly more erratic than before. But so was his. '_What's wrong with me?'_ He thought.**_ 'Focus.' _**

"I knew that he expected me to commit suicide the night before. That's why I chose Bart's as the meeting place, because Molly and I created a way for it to appear as if I had died jumping." He smirked and turned to his doctor. "But that's a story for another time."

Sherlock pulled fully away and stood against the counter opposite. Where he had expected there to be more shouting, there was only silence. Both men stood there, Sherlock waiting for John to respond, to react, to do _something, _but John had only stared at the wall blankly.

Sherlock didn't like this silence. "…John?"

John didn't look at him when he responded. "You did it to protect us?"

Sherlock's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Yes."

John closed his eyes and nodded slowly, mostly for his benefit.

More heated silence.

Again, John spoke, barely above a whisper. "I'm going to stay at a motel. I… I don't think I should be around you right now." It felt like John had hit him again. _Why does he want to leave? I'm __**back. **_As he turned to leave, Sherlock felt something almost _human._ His heart stuttered. His stomach rolled. It was very likely that his pupils were slightly blown. He used to feel it whenever he wondered what John was doing when he was… away.

"John." Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed the sleeve of his jumper. "Please don't leave." _What am I saying? I __**don't**__ want him to go, but why do I sound so… pathetic?_

John stopped. "Let me go, Sherlock."

As Sherlock let the soft, familiar fabric slip from his grasp, it felt like letting go of a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. He was just left there, floating alone and helpless.

John paused at the door. "I'll come back. When I'm ready. Please don't look for me." John knew that he would anyways. John wouldn't admit it to himself, but secretly, he wanted Sherlock to find him.

Sherlock stood for minutes after the sound of the door closing echoed. _That should've gone differently._ Not knowing what else to do, he picked up his violin and bow from the counter and played his sweet, pain-filled melody as the tree in his mind grew and flourished further, and he set free all of the tears he had held back, not quite knowing why.


	4. Nightmares

It was decided. John needed a drink.

The only problem was that he didn't think he could handle being in public for long without snapping. To solve that, he rented a cheap, hole-in-the-wall motel room for a couple of nights, and headed to the nearest liquor store. When he first got back from Afghanistan, there was a dark time when he found solace at the bottom of a bottle, so he was in and out of the store in four minutes with one of their largest (and more expensive) bottles of honey whiskey, and was on his way back to the motel.

When he arrived at his room, (221, ironically) the moist smell of sweat and possibly mold slapped him in the face and made him wrinkle his nose in distaste. _Well, _he thought, _I'm not going to be noticing much soon. Not soon enough… _The doctor flipped through channel after channel of crap telly until he saw a programme that piqued his interest. It seemed to be a documentary on sociopathic behavior and other types of psychosis. John couldn't help but giggle a bit as he poured himself a tumbler. _That damned bastard. Damn you straight to hell._

The narrator droned on over a highlighted diagram of a man's frontal lobe. Mildly interesting, but it was time to be drunk. _Sip. _

John let the fiery sweetness slip over his tongue and blaze through his throat. It really had been too long since he'd last bee in this position. The drunk one, not the 'hating-your-best-friend-because-he-faked-his-deat h' one.

He sank down onto the very creaky, very questionable mattress and continued to watch the programme and sip his drink. Watch, sip. Watch, sip. Refill. Lather, rinse, repeat. Very soon, he began to feel a warm, familiar tingling feeling that left his mind in an unintelligible muddle spread from his center to his limbs. The documentary had long-since finished, and now it was something about animals in the safari. On the small, fuzzy screen, a small pride of lions stalked a herd of gazelles grazing near a watering hole. Those lions reminded John of something, he was sure…

A pair of lionesses crept through the tall, dry grass towards an unsuspecting mother and its baby. "Noooo…" John moaned tiredly to the baby onscreen. "Ruuuuun, you majestic creature of the wild. Save yourself." BIG gulp.

The mother gazelle's head snapped to attention- but a moment to late. The two lions pounced from cover to their prey.

Aha, that was it. The lions reminded him of Sherlock. He certainly had the hair of a lion. A lion that belonged in a shampoo commercial, he giggled.

But it wasn't just the hair, he thought as the giant cats feasted. It was the primal concentration on whatever it was that he desired. Whether it was deciphering new evidence or suspects, or getting another case, or simply nabbing more cigarettes, Sherlock Holmes didn't give up willingly.

_So why did he give up on me? _John thought pitifully.

Why would he just… leave? Why would he let everyone believe that he was just a fake that committed suicide? It's not like anybody wouldn't have understood. _Why, __**why, **__**why,**____**WHY?!**_

He threw his now empty glass against the wall and watched as it shattered into a thousand pieces.

_"I __**needed**__ you!" _John shouted at nobody, tears streaking his face once more. "And you weren't there! I trusted you…" he slurred.

He sank back down to the end of the bed with 1/3 of his bottle left.

_God damned bastard. __**I hate you. **_

But John knew that wasn't true. Although at times, Sherlock could indeed be a bastard, John still loved him. God help him, but he loved him. Ever since that night at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned, when John had been willing to give up his life at the slightest chance that Sherlock's might be spared, he had loved that terribly beautiful man, all angles and darkness, but it was common knowledge that the detective would never return John's feelings. It was just a fact in his mind because Sherlock wasn't more than friends with **anyone.**The only reason he had anyone was because they were useful, or they kept him from being bored.

And although it should've, it didn't stop John from wishing that Sherlock would come chasing after him.

He didn't know exactly when, but at some point, John fell asleep. One moment, he was watching some cheesy game show over the last of his whiskey (straight from the bottle, now that he lacked a glass,) and the next, he found himself standing on an all-too-familiar-street. _Oh god, not this. Not again, not now… _Over the building in front of him, he could see the great, hulking stone figure that was St. Bartholomew's Hospital. And at the top, he could see a figure toeing the edge. He didn't need to look to know who it was. _Enough, please. _It was like the image had been branded to the inside of his eyelids, he saw it every time he closed his eyes. Even now, he could still hear those last words echoing around him. **_"Goodbye, John. _**_Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John…"_

And just like every other time John had this nightmare, Sherlock jumped.

He spread his long, graceful arms as if he were unfurling a great pair of wings. Sherlock took that step off of the roof like he was about to take flight at the last moment, but like every single time, he didn't. He fell, and John watched in horror from afar, screaming his name. Sherlock was an angel that had his wings torn off the very moment he needed them by a God that had forsaken him, that thought it would be humorous to make him a fallen angel. A _falling _angel.

Flash-forward, John is pushing against a barricade of squirming bodies to reach the only one that mattered to him. Suddenly, there he was. Everything else melted away until it was just John and Sherlock, on the ground, turned away from him. It would almost look like he was asleep if it weren't for the blood pooling around his head. _God, just stop this. Wake up. I get it, I've seen it, just please, __**please, WAKE UP!**_

A hand on his cold shoulder, turning the fallen detective over. But it wasn't him. The face that looked up at John belonged to Jim Moriarty, sitting up and grinning coldly. You've lost, _Doctor._" he sneered. Before John could jump away, Jim snatched him by the front of his coat lapels and yanked him forward until their faces were just inches apart. "**_Loser._**" And then he was giggling in John's face like he had remembered the punchline to some brilliant joke. "Loser, loser, loser, loser."

John tried to pull away, but Jim had a surprisingly strong grip for such a small man. John looked into his face, and for the briefest moment, it was Sherlock on that day, bloodstains and all. "John…" _Flash. _Jim going on like a broken record again. "**Loser, loser, loser, loser, loser." **Back and forth it went, from Moriarty to Sherlock and back again.

"John, help m-" **"Loser, loser, lose-" **"Please, John, I don't know where I-" **"LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, ****_LOSER_****-" ****_"Don't go."_**

Until finally, John woke to find himself screaming.


	5. Found

Although he had been asked not to, Sherlock was going after John. He didn't know why, but he had a desperate need to make John happy. God knows that he had been angry with him countless times before _that _day, but the way John was now… It made it hard to breathe for Sherlock.

Of course he knew where John was staying, that had been obvious. He hadn't been to work in some time, so he had little money, therefore he could only afford a cheap motel, and the only one that was a reasonable distance away was the Cozy Inn, a common rendezvous for drug deals and quick shags after the pub.

After Sherlock had hailed a cab and given the little old driver the address, he went over what he could say to John to make him forgive him. But as most people know, Sherlock Holmes was complete rubbish with humans, all running around with their tiny, mundane thoughts and those emotions that were as unpredictable as a bunch of dangerous acids suddenly all being dumped into a bowl. The only difference was that he could handle the chemical burns afterwards.

The cabbie stopped in the crummy parking lot that could be none other than the Cozy Inn, in all of its filthy, most likely infested glory. _Finding John will be dreadfully easy, _he thought. _I'll just have to use my wonderful little acting skills._

Sherlock straightened his scarf and pushed open the door to the musty 12 by 10 foot lobby. On the far wall, a teenage boy sat behind a desk with an utterly dead expression. Quickly, Sherlock analyzed the problem- _Approximately 18-21 years old, clubbers eyes, hair is obviously dyed black, that with the length and style, plus the product on his frown lines and the self-tanner- _and found a solution. **_Gay._**

He plastered on his best worried/vulnerable face and timidly walked up to the young man.

"Um, excuse me, could you please help me?"

The clerk (Simon, according to the nametag) snapped his head up with surprise, noticing the dark jacket-clad gentleman in front of him. "Y-yeah, sure. Whatcha need?" His green eyes drifted over the detective's lean body.

Sherlock sniffled and added a little tear in his eye for effect. "Well, I'm looking for someone. It's rather important to me."

The poor boy already had the registry out and open. "Alright, what's the name, love?"

"Watson." _Sniffle._ "John Watson. My husband."

Simon's eyes flickered up with a hint of disappointment. "Oh. Husband. Might I ask what happened between you two?"

Sherlock reacted quickly. "Oh, we… we got into a fight. Things were said. But all I want, more than anything, is for him to forgive me." _Not a total lie._

"Oh, terribly sorry. Never turn out good, fights do. Ah!" He jabbed a finger at a space in the book. "A mister John Watson, room number… 221."

Sherlock sighed with relief, not completely acting. "Oh, thank you, thank you so much!" The boy flushed and scratched the back of his head shyly. "Really, it weren't no trouble, mate. But, um…" Simon looked up at him through his lashes. "If it don't work out between you and your man, I'm always free for a drink."

With the information he wanted already in hand, Sherlock decided that the act was over. "I really don't think that will be nessisary. Good evening." And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving behind an utterly rejected Simon.

It had begun to rain when Sherlock found the room, it was within sight of the lobby door. When he finally stood in front of the door, the hard part would be what to say. Just meters away, past a simple piece of wood, was _John,_ the one person he could easily talk to, about cases, or tea, or Cluedo, except now.

Sherlock peeked through the small window beside the door and saw an ex-army doctor, twitching lightly in his sleep.

The detective knew that it was wrong to intrude on such a private moment, but seeing John asleep was, well… almost fascinating. He knew John needed the rest, that was plain to see, but his face… It was almost completely relaxed. In the waking hours, He always held himself in his usual military fashion, the muscles in his face taut and alert. It was rare to see him physically at ease.

_I should go._

As he turned to leave, he heard the screams.

_"Sherlock!_


	6. Authors Note

Hey guise, I just wanted to let you all know that I'm trying my best to finish the next chapter of AUV. The reason I haven't done it sooner is because I started school a couple weeks ago, and they've been loading us with work, and I'm **_reallyreallyreallyreally_**sorry that I haven't updated! But I promise you this, I will make the next chapter 10x better since you all have been really patient :3

Keep calm and fanfic on!

Your friendly neighborhood author,  
LizHolmes


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